Just For Stealing a Mouthful of Bread
by cabsandwaifs
Summary: It was more freezing and bitter than ever that winter.Jean Valjean has the responsibility of earning enough money to feed not only himself, but also his sister and her seven children. Starvation leads him to steal a loaf of bread, and lose his former life
1. Five years for a loaf of bread

The door creaked as it opened, allowing a chilling draught to enter the room, remaining to dance for only a second and then leaving a faint bitterness in its wake. Even as it passed through the cracks in the plastering of the wall, the seven children, so pale and so thin it caused anyone who looked at them to wince in pity, shivered. The man who entered the room with the wind however, did not show any sign that he felt the cold that ate away at the inhabitants of this room so mercilessly.

Jean Valjean hardly felt or noticed anything, it seemed. He spoke very infrequently, and when he did it would never be about something so regular as the cold. This was what happened each year; Faverolles would frost over when winter arrived. It would be bitter and miserable, and he would walk up and down the half frozen lanes, offering himself in houses and farms for any kind of work that needed to be done, whether it was as a reaper, workman, teamster or labourer. He would work every day of the week, for that was the only way to earn enough sous to feed the family. But soon enough spring would come and once again he was a pruner, earning eighteen sous a day and about sixteen out of those eighteen going into the seven mouths of his nieces and nephews. And so life continued. He did not complain, or wish for anything different. For indeed, this was how life was.

Occasionally, he would look up and for a moment a certain loving light would dawn in his eyes as he gazed at one of the little girls and boys, so sweet and innocent. But those moments never lasted and soon enough, the light would die again and he would resort to gazing down at the floor, as if no though ever crossed his mind.

This winter though was different, surely the air was colder than normal, and he was certain that the wind had never had such a harsh bite. He was having trouble finding work, for strong and able as he was, other families in a similar situation to this one did not wish to give their own precious sous for such work. Each year the children grew bigger and hungrier and there was only so much his sister could do to earn money.

As he closed the door shut, his sister Jeanne rushed over to him, and the children watched expectantly with their wide eyes set deeply into their gaunt faces.

"Thank goodness you're home. I was beginning to worry that I would have to send the children to bed without anything to eat. I have been so busy with taking care of them, and I searched all over the house, there is not a sous to be found. How much did you earn today?"

Valjean stared silently at his sister, his long hair hanging across his face. A blank expression creased his features and one who did not know him would not have guessed he had understood the question.

"Jean? What is the matter? Why do you not answer me?"

"The Farmer did not want his fence fixed. I earned nothing today." He finally admitted in a low, grumbling voice.

His sister gazed at him, a look of surprise and then despair casting a shadow on her face. "Not a sous?" She asked.

"Not a sous."

Valjean stared long and hard at his sister, until she finally turned away without another word. He simply stared down at the wooden floorboards and watched regretfully out of the corner of his eye as his sister made a pretence of being calm and sent the seven frail children to bed. He quietly watched the hope for something to ease the hunger die and the glint leave their eyes. One by one, they solemnly lowered their heads submissively and in turn said goodnight to their mother before trudging to their bedroom. He knew all too well that no-one in the family had eaten anything since Saturday, the day before and it had been his responsibility to bring home their meal, however scant. These thoughts crossed his mind and the guilt rested on his shoulders, but he did not say anything to give a hint that they were there.

Wordlessly, his sister sat on a chair in the corner of the room and stared in despair at the opposite wall. She would never dare to criticise him, but he knew the blame was there. With a heavy step and his head lowered, he hurriedly shut himself in his own room. Through the thin walls, he could hear the sniffs and sighs of the seven children.

In the dark of the night, Jean Valjean tossed and turned restlessly. It was not hunger that kept him awake, he was used to that -even when the children were fed, he often went hungry. The reason for his insomnia was the memory of those small faces as they were told they would not eat this evening. He knew very well that they had been kept idly inside for risk of the cold harming them. The small fire in the main room did little to warm anyone and the only real warmth they had hoped to receive this day was from food. Although he seldom did anything to prove it, he felt deeply responsible for these children. To see them losing all faith in anything could would be something more painful than anything the cold could do for them. He did not love them, his heart was too hard or that, but their images kept him awake even so.

He did not know how long the thoughts plagued his mind, but with the action of throwing of the blanket and putting on his outdoor coat (he did not change for bed during the winter) he resolved to put an end to this starvation.

Faverolles was crueller at night than it ever was in the day. As Jean Valjean strode through the small town, he kept his steps soft and looked around in every direction, as if something or someone was hunting him. The thought to button his coat against the cold did not occur to him; it was not that that bothered him.

All too soon, he was standing in front of the baker's shop on the Place de l'Eglise. He stared almost insanely through the barred window. Loaves of bread left over from earlier today appeared to stare back at him. A single loaf of bread filled his vision. This would feed his family, this bread would be enough to feed the seven children for the moment. It might not be enough to fill himself or his sister, but it was the children he was thinking of. Only a single sheet of glass stood between him and that bread. Just one sheet….

Before he knew it, the glass was shattered and fell in glittering shards onto the window sill. For a second, he stood, staring at the cracked pane. A heavy shouting erupted somewhere upstairs and just as Maubert Isabeau dashed into the room, Jean Valjean reached into the gap, grabbed the bread and was away.

He did not look back. Beyond the thunderous slapping of his shoes against the street, he heard the front door of the bakers open and slam shut and he tried so hard not to listen to the shouts that pursued him. Along the street some lights were lit. In other houses, people poked their heads out of windows, themselves unwilling to use up precious candles.

Finally, he was tempted to glance back and the sight of at least ten people ferociously pursuing him only made him run faster. A couple doors opened ahead of him as more people, most still in their night clothes, came out. That was when he knew there would be no hope, but he ran on all the same. If he continued this way, someone would surely catch him sooner than otherwise, while throwing the loaf of bread high into the air, giving it up in surrender, he turned into a side street. This led him straight into a dead end. Somehow, he slowed to an abrupt halt and stared up at the wall, so cold and heartless. He had no hope of scaling the wall, especially with the intense pain that he only then noticed. Looking down, he saw hot sticky blood streaming down his arm, pooling out of many different cuts. Some shards of glass still rested in his skin.

No sooner had he taken this into account then his hunters turned and entered this alleyway. Instantly the pain was forgotten. He was breathing heavily, staring through the strands of hair hanging in his face. His hand twitched towards his gun, then stopped. He could not use it, not like this. All he could do was watch as the men closed in on him.

It did not take long for the flame in his head to cool down. He could not say what had made him act so impulsively, even he did not understand the reason in it. Everyone knew all very well that a starving family was no excuse for stealing. After that night, all he felt was shame and regret. He had no anger at that point, the anger came later. The trial came and he was found guilty. He took the blows as they came, in the same way he had taken everything his entire life. Silently and without defiance. He was sentenced five years for his crime. Five years! The galleys would surely destroy him, if he was banished from society once, he did not see any hope in that same society taking him in again. After what he could only recall as days of blur, he found himself at the Bicêtre, chained into a long line with other condemned creatures. His name was taken away from him. 24601 was his new identity. They put an iron collar on him, and took him to Toulon. Soon enough, he stopped asking himself, what would have happened if he had not gone out that night. There was no use thinking about it, and it certainly no longer mattered to anyone else. Perhaps his sister and her seven children still thought of it, but they did not exist to him any more. _He_ did not exist to himself any more. He cast away Jean Valjean. Now, he was simply 24601.


	2. Three years for two days

A/N- Oh my God, this was so hard to write! I just have to say that I tried researching galleys and the like, but I couldn't find much, so I apologize in advance for any factual errors. Practically all the material here is based on the book, so I am warning you that some other information may be wrong.

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Four years had passed. Four years of labour, cruelty, discomfort and hardness. Whatever blessings one may have been even slightly grateful for in the outside world did not exist here. The galleys lacked mercy, kindness, sympathy and love. Here, no-one had a family and no-one had friends. The closest things to friends anyone could find were other creatures, condemned like them, and the only thing that bound these together were the chains.

Life such as this, one deprived of everything anyone would value, could only cultivate darkness. Whoever found themselves in this place was treated with no compassion, and so hardness and hatred grew within them, keeping them alive but at the same time, devouring them. Jean Valjean had lived in this way for four years now. No exception to any others here, he had fallen prey to this fate. Four years he had spent suffering, and vaguely he remembered that he had but one year to go. To anyone who had not suffered the galleys, it would seem logical to wait just a little longer, and then he would be free of this torment. But to Jean Valjean, one year more was too much.

Every once in a while, a chance came about when one had the opportunity to escape. Even the convicts knew that no more than one of them had even the slightest chance. So they took turns, in some way keeping track of who had tried and failed. With the knowledge that eventually time would give them their opportunity to escape; each convict assisted one another in this feat. Now it was Jean Valjean's turn. He had the choice of waiting one more year to be freed legally, or risking everything to capture his freedom now. He chose now.

Each night the convicts were given a few hours of rest before they again were sent out to work. A small cell could house up to ten convicts, and most took this precious time to gain some illusion of rest. This night however, harsh voiced whispers could be heard through the thin walls. Not able to hear what they were saying, the guards posted simply ignored them. If the convicts wanted to exhaust themselves by staying awake all night, then so be it. The work would be no less the next day. This was how the convicts managed in shoving Jean Valjean, already released from his chain, through a small window in the cabin of the ship. Jean Valjean had used his strength the wrench free the old, rusty bars that blocked the way and now he scrambled through the hole that was left. Fortunately for them, the luxury of glass in the windows was not given to the convicts. And so Jean Valjean was saved the trouble of breaking it, which would have created noise and alerted the guards to their plot. For indeed, if there had in fact been glass, the memory of how this was the very thing that had given him away the first time might have dissuaded him.

Now however, he scrambled silently in the shadows. The ship had stopped at the harbour today to replenish supplies and such. Now there was a clear path from the ship to the land, a possibility of escape. Jean Valjean aptly gripped the side of the ship, ignoring the waves crashing below him and scaled along it. Once a guard strode past, right above him, but the convict simply melted into the shadows (a simple thing, as convicts become part of darkness anyway) and then continued. With silence that one would not have presumed possible for a man such as himself, he hauled himself along the rope and finally clambered onto the dock.

He was starved, exhausted and infused with the bitterness that comes from the galleys, but now only one thought assailed him. He was free! This notion alone kept him going through the night, until finally, he collapsed amongst a small copse of trees.

He didn't know how long he lay there, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not find sleep. So long had he spent his sleeping hours on a course pallet that could hardly be called a bed, that he now found it unnerving to sleep with the knowledge that he was free. Besides, any second, guards could find him and re-capture him. To Jean Valjean, freedom had no opportunities; after all, he had no legal identity. There was no life for him beyond these fields. Freedom was merely an exhilarating feeling, one to savour, and just knowing that at this moment he was free, was enough.

In a monotonous daze, he trudged on, without a destination and without thought. Once, he came across a small town, and the sight of people frightened him more than the chains of the galleys. He caught sight of smoke rising from the chimneys, and imagined it was rising from the hot blaze on a ship. He heard the clock strike midday, and he shuddered as if it was the signal for the convicts to change post. Any living being he passed on the road, he shied away from, glaring at it in such away that whoever ventured to look at him would have been haunted by the smouldering hate in his eyes. The man that strolled towards and eventually passed him became a guard out to capture him, and the dog that trotted beside him, the trained animal used to track the scent. When he heard the thump of a horseman on the road, he desperately hid behind the trees for fear that it was another guard.

Late in the second day, he was pressing himself against a tree, his vision dazed and blurred with the terror of his plight and the exhaustion of having not eaten or slept since he escaped. Footsteps could be heard treading along the road. Jean Valjean, half delirious as he was, believed himself hidden and for once assumed it was some random person passing by. However it was when the course, hardened faces of the guards from the galleys finally focused in his vision that he realised, and by then it was too late.

He did not fight them; he knew well enough that it was no use. Only when he was back in the dreaded place and thrust before the officer did he lower his head in shame. It was three more years in this place. Two days of freedom had cost him three years, which made a total of eight years in the galleys by the end of it. But Jean Valjean could not envisage an end.


End file.
